


the gods must be crazy

by delhuillier



Series: Crucible [7]
Category: Fire Emblem Heroes
Genre: Morph!Kiran, Other, genderless Kiran, hope you like exposition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-24 20:24:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16647161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delhuillier/pseuds/delhuillier
Summary: What danger does Loki pose, exactly, to her and her sister? Laegjarn, only recently arrived home after her escape from the Order intends to find out, even if it means meeting with the very same enemy that imprisoned her.





	the gods must be crazy

Laegjarn emerges from the meeting with her father, face tense and set. Colonel Eimnir, one of her field officers and the one she most often leaned on when it came to direct management of her infantry mage forces, is waiting for her; his narrow face darkens with concern when he sees her, and he seems on the cusp of actually wringing his hands, which Laegjarn has never once seen someone do in real life. She’s surprised that he looks so anxious, considering how even-keeled he is normally, but admittedly she had been speaking to Surtr about something very, very serious: her capture by the Order.

On the other hand, Ymir, Eimnir’s tall and lanky shadow, is his charge’s polar opposite: he leans casually against the wall, evidently unconcerned that he’s in the presence of one of Múspell’s generals. But then, Eimnir is native to Múspell and fiercely loyal to her; Ymir’s from Nifl, and loyal only to those who pay him enough.

Laegjarn gestures with her head down the hallway, and immediately Eimnir hurries up to walk by her side. After a few seconds, Ymir yawns and rouses himself to trail after them.

She’s grateful that Eimnir stays silent as they move a few paces down the hallway, even though it’s obvious on his face how many questions he has. She certainly needs the time to steady herself, so she can speak without her voice trembling—her father’s rages always leave her like this, and the last one had been fierier than most, seeing as she’d shown her face after suffering the shame of being held captive.

“Eimnir,” she says, after a time.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“My father has seen fit to allow me to retain my command,” Laegjarn says. “So worry on that no longer.”

“That’s wonderful news,” Eimnir says, meaning every single word. “But I never doubted His Majesty would make that decision. Someone of your calibre should not be discarded so quickly, ma’am.”

Laegjarn chuckles. “If I didn’t know you better, Eimnir, I’d accuse you of sycophancy.”

Eimnir looks sincerely appalled by the very idea, and Laegjarn finds herself reflecting that Ymir had been right when he said that Eimnir’s earnestness was...well, endearing.

“But you don’t know my father,” Laegjarn says. Or what he’s become, at least. “Any disappointment, no matter how small or trivial, might be an excuse for him to end your career and likely your life. I’ve been very lucky.”

“That’s…” Eimnir begins, but then he stops, a dark cloud passing over his face, undoubtedly remembering how his father had unceremoniously disowned him for being too physically frail to use swords or lances or axes. Not that the magic he uses now is much better for him, she thinks, eyes drifting to the tome strapped to his waist. Ginnungagap: a tome of dark magic that had lain dormant in the bowels of Múspell’s vaults until uncovered by—who else?—Loki.

He’d been so proud at finally finding something, besides his ability to read the battlefield, to distinguish himself from the other mages Laegjarn commanded; and indeed it’s true that Eimnir is the only one who’s been able to handle the slippery, predatory magic contained in its pages. And Loki had used that, that cursed woman, used that and Eimnir’s desperation for acknowledgment to lure him into taking up a tome that extracts a terrible price every time he uses it.

Well. That’s expected in Múspell, she supposes. Be strong, at any cost. Her father exemplifies that credo all too well.

(And so does she. She had had no aptitude for battle or tactics, until she realised that there was no else but she who could keep Laevatein safe. Now she’s a general in her father’s army.)

“I wouldn’t say lucky,” Eimnir at last says, dragging her out of her own thoughts. “Not to contradict you, ma’am. But you led us well in Nifl—even Princess Fjorm herself acknowledged that—so I have no doubt your father saw you as a leader that Múspell would be the worse off for losing.”

“Perhaps my father did recognise that,” Laegjarn concedes, despite her certainty that isn’t true at all. “But I’m no mind reader.”

“Not many are, ma’am,” Eimnir says.

She smiles, but leaves it at that. Instead, she moves on to another, more important subject: Loki. Laegjarn hadn’t forgotten what Kiran had so bluntly implied back when they had attempted to turn her, and Loki’s more recent attempt to capture Kiran—which had amounted to nothing but their miraculous escape—had only made her suspicions grow.

It’s a delicate situation, considering Loki had instructed Eimnir in magic for a time. But she’s sure that his loyalty to her, as his commanding officer, will trump any informal relationship he might have with that scheming witch.

“Eimnir,” she says, slowly, “I have something else I wish to speak with you about.”

“About what, ma’am?” Eimnir asks. “How may I help?”

She glances at Ymir, who’s busy checking his nails. He angles his gaze up to meet hers, and quirks an eyebrow, and strangely enough, that simple gesture makes her feel as though she can trust him. Because Ymir has no dog in this fight. He doesn’t care who wins or who loses; he abandoned his birth country, after all, just because Múspell offered him money. Intrigue interests him not at all.

“Loki tells me that the Tempest will emerge again soon,” Laegjarn says. “And there’s something I’d like to do…”

=

It’s an odd feeling, to be quelling the Tempest in Múspell itself, because it amounts to defending a country with which Askr is currently at war. Alfonse, of course, did not see that as a reason not to help, and thankfully Kiran had seen it that way, too, instead of deciding to use the chaos caused by the Tempest in order to better solidify their foothold in Múspell territory. Despite Surtr’s actions, none of the civilians here deserve to be swallowed up by the gaping maw of the Tempest, or killed by the soldiers that flow from it, endlessly.

Kiran’s riding with Berkut now, sitting side-saddle behind the Rigelian prince. They could no longer take to the battlefield solely on foot as they used to, thanks to their worsening condition, so they often ride with the cavalry, permitting them to survey the battlefield much more easily. And more often than not, Berkut had had the honour of carrying the Summoner.

Alfonse takes a moment to ponder whether or not he ought to take up riding again. It would certainly mean less of a burden on the other soldiers, and would keep Kiran close enough that he could protect them. True, he’s unpracticed at fighting from horseback, but that could easily be remedied with practice…

But that’s neither here nor there, Alfonse thinks, rousing himself from his thoughts. He needs to focus.

And it’s a good thing he returns to the present then, because at that moment Tana comes skimming down out of the sky to land in front of him. Kiran leans forward to murmur something to Berkut, and the prince brings his horse around, guiding it back to where Tana’s pegasus stands, flanks heaving, on the ground. (They really ought to have the mages develop a charm to ward the creatures from the intense heat—not just for the health of the pegasi, but for that of their riders, too. He’ll have to suggest that to Anna.)

“Something to report?” Alfonse asks her, once he’s close enough.

“Two wyvern riders approaching,” Tana says. “Not five minutes off. They don’t look like the Tempest phantoms, and they’re not wearing Múspell armour. Or anything that could identify them, really.”

“Armed?” Kiran asks.

“From what I could see, one didn’t look it. The other might’ve had a bow? I can go look again—just say the word.”

“No,” Kiran says. “No. Stay down for now.”

“Got it,” Tana says cheerfully. She pats her horse’s neck. “Gotta give Ephraim a rest, anyhow.”

“What are you thinking, Kiran?” Alfonse asks them quietly.

Kiran’s answer comes after a few moments—a few moments where they seem lost in their own mind, as though they are heeding some inner voice. “Concealed identity,” they says “and low in number. They want to talk.”

That’s reasonable enough, if a bit optimistic. But Kiran’s speaking again, so Alfonse loses the opportunity, for now, to give voice to his objections.

“We wait,” they say. “And Alfonse, would you…?”

Alfonse moves up to help Kiran down from Berkut’s horse. They slip into his arms—so light, so insubstantial—and then he sets them gently on the ground. He stays close, just in case they need to lean on him.

“You’re sure it'll be all right?”

“Yes,” Kiran says. Very lightly, they rest their hand on Alfonse’s arm. “Don’t worry.”

Alfonse runs his hand through Kiran’s soft hair, and lets his palm settle at the back of their neck. Kiran shifts closer, a sign of their appreciation for the gesture—and Alfonse wonders at how hot they are now, warm like the dry Múspell air around them. The natural result of an artificial body that requires no temperature regulation, Alfonse thinks.

He lowers his head until their foreheads are almost touching, and says, “With all the trouble you love to get into, how could I _not_ worry?”

Kiran’s face creases. “ _Please_ , Alfonse…”

Alfonse chucks them under the chin, smiling a little. “Sorry, Kiran. Couldn’t resist.”

But he hasn’t time to say more, because the two wyvern riders are touching down, mere tens of metres away from he and Kiran. There are, as Tana said, two of them: there’s a bowman, more beautiful than handsome, with skin as pale as Fjorm’s and eyes the dull grey of an overcast sky, and there’s a whippet-thin young man, his boyish face as dark as Laevatein’s or Laegjarn’s. At first, the latter indeed seems unarmed (again as Tana said), but then Alfonse notices the tome strapped to his waist. A mage and an archer, without support—perhaps Kiran is right that they’ve come to talk.

The mage dismounts, but his companion does not; he sits deceptively relaxed in his saddle with the easy confidence of someone who could draw and release an arrow in the time it might take Alfonse to unsheathe his sword. The mage approaches, and bows low.

“Prince Alfonse, of Askr?” he asks. “I am Colonel Eimnir, and serve under General Laegjarn. I have come on her behalf to speak with you and Askr’s Divine Summoner.”

An emissary from Laegjarn? Then...could it be that Fjorm and Kiran’s attempt to turn her over to the Order’s side had borne fruit? Or perhaps this is all a trick, and while they talk, other Múspell soldiers will close on him and Kiran to put them to the sword.

Still, Kiran had said it would be all right. Alfonse would have to—and _wants_ to—trust them.

“Colonel,” Alfonse says, “I am indeed the prince of Askr. You’ll forgive me for sounding so suspicious, but—what could General Laegjarn possibly have to want to speak to us about? We are at war. She serves the man who scarred my kingdom.” _And so do you,_ he doesn’t say.

Colonel Eimnir inclines his head, a silent acknowledgement of the validity of Alfonse’s point. “I don’t know the specifics, but General Laegjarn wishes to halt hostilities for the time being so she might discuss with Kiran what exactly they know regarding one specific person.” He pauses, and then gives that person’s name. “That is, Loki.”

This surprises Alfonse, sets his mind awhirl. That Laegjarn sought information about Loki, and would seek it in such a covert manner—could this be a sign of internal division within the Múspell ranks? If so, then they can use this. And at the very least, it might provide a foundation for peace after the war is over, no matter who the victor is.

“We will be happy to convey you to the general, if you wish,” Eimnir adds. “Or we could arrange a time and a place for a future meeting. I serve as the general’s voice in these matters.” 

Still, Alfonse does not reply. Eimnir seems nothing but sincere, an honourable soldier who fights out of loyalty and devotion to a general that has treated him well, not out of a desire to see more furrows fertilised with his foes’ blood. But it’s the other man that worries Alfonse—he’s like a panther crouched on coiled legs, ready to pounce. It’s all too believable that he could be an assassin, and that Eimnir is unknowingly providing the pretence for the assassin to get close enough to strike at the heart of the Order.

They should really discuss a time and place to meet in the future. This would give the Order time to scout out the area, and perhaps they could leave a small contingent of soldiers hidden away in some bolt-hole just in case there’s a breakdown in negotiations. 

But as usual, Kiran makes the decision for him.

“I’ll go,” they say.

“Kiran, wait,” Alfonse says, before he can stop himself. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Eimnir fold his hands behind his back, the stance of someone prepared to wait as long as necessary. 

He leans close, hoping to hide some of the conversation from Eimnir’s ears. “Do you understand the kind of danger you’ll be putting yourself in?”

“Of course,” Kiran says, showing a glimmer of their emerging humanity in those, at least for them, confrontational words. _Of course I understand. Who do you think I am?_ someone else might say.

“So you will go with me.”

“Kiran, I’d need to run that by Anna first, and…” He trails off, losing his train of thought as the war between frustration and fondness ends with the former’s surrender. Kiran’s so...stubborn. Bull-headed, even. He can say that now, because of how much Kiran has grown. How much Kiran is becoming _Kiran_ , how much they _assert_ themselves as an ego unto themselves. It makes him want to bundle Kiran into his arms and never let go.

“I am the Summoner,” Kiran says, barely inflecting the second word. The meaning comes across loud and clear.

“So you are,” Alfonse concedes, an affectionate smile shattering his serious expression. He knows that although Anna commands the Order, she always bows to Kiran’s wishes when it comes to strategy and to tactics, and one could very liberally interpret this proposed meeting Laegjarn as an aspect of those. So though she might lecture the two of them (again) about putting themselves in danger, her bark would probably be worse than her bite.

“And I have warned you,” Kiran says, less assertively now. “...Like you asked me to. Back then.”

And that’s really the last straw. Alfonse can do nothing else but give in.

=

Eimnir, as promised, delivers Kiran to a crumbling, abandoned fortress in the scrublands of Múspell. The heat sends sweat cascading down Alfonse’s neck, but he is grateful to have at last arrived: Ymir (the bowman), the back of whose wyvern Alfonse had shared for the journey, had helped Alfonse into his seat with a hand placed a little to low on Alfonse’s hip, and had let a hand linger a little too long on Alfonse’s shoulder. It’s an act, or at least mostly one, but it still makes Alfonse feel as though Ymir might pounce on him if given even half an opportunity—and that impression is reinforced by what Alfonse hears him say (too loudly, as though for Alfonse’s benefit) as Alfonse leads Kiran towards Laegjarn.

“The prince _is_ a pretty little thing, isn’t he?”

“Please, Ymir,” Eimnir says, each syllable sour with exasperation. “Enough of that.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Ymir says, and Alfonse can just imagine him with an arm tucked around Eimnir’s shoulders and with his face pressed too close (all meant to discomfit, to put off balance, to leave you open to his claws. That man could kill someone, ten people, twenty, and that soft half-smile on his face would change not at all). His voice drops low, becoming almost a purr. “I’m still _all_ yours to use as you see fit.”

“And how I wish you weren’t, sometimes.”

“Only sometimes? Sweet of you to say.”

Thankfully, Alfonse and Kiran finally move out of earshot. They close on Laegjarn.

Before speaking, before even greeting them, Laegjarn pulls her curving sword, Níu, from its sheath, and offers it, hilt first, to Alfonse. It’s a mere symbolic gesture—there are any number of places archers and mages could be hiding to rain death down on Alfonse and Kiran’s heads—but Alfonse appreciates it nonetheless. He accepts the sword with a nod.

“General Laegjarn.”

“Alfonse, Prince of Askr,” Laegjarn replies. “Well met. Thank you for accepting my invitation.”

“What’s this all about, General?”

He feels the weight of Kiran, leaning on him for support, and thinks of what Fjorm had told him Kiran said to Laegjarn. Gods in the weapons, and Loki’s aim to collect them all. Is _that_ what this is all about?

“First, let it be known that this is not a peace offering,” Laegjarn says, “it is a request for information about an enemy we share. Nothing more. I do not have the authority to sue for peace on behalf of my father, nor would he ever give it to me.”

“Though it’s unfortunate we cannot discuss terms of a truce,” Alfonse says, “we will assist you as best we can. In hopes that one day those talks may happen.”

Laegjarn’s expression tightens, but she says nothing; she simply watches him, gaze pricking at his skin, until something seems to satisfy her, whereupon she turns her gaze upon Kiran. 

“Divine Summoner of Askr,” she says. “I want to talk about Loki. About what you know and how you know it. Does that seem amenable to you?”

“Yes,” Kiran says immediately, as Alfonse had a feeling they would.

Laegjarn nods, once, twice. “Then Loki’s plan. You mentioned the weapons, and her yearning for them, but what does she want to do with them? What motivates her, if you even know that?”

This general of Múspell, the one who had so ardently pursued them across Nifl’s snows, pauses, and then sighs, and at that moment she’s more vulnerable than Alfonse has ever seen her—more so even than the time she had been the Order’s captive. “I,” she begins, “I come to you as a loyal daughter and a worried sister. What does Loki want, truly, and are my country, my father, and above all my _sister_ in danger?”

Kiran is quiet for so long that Alfonse starts to wonder if they expect him to provide the answer Laegjarn wants. But then their voice comes.

“Cloaked in flame, he crosses the sea—unquenchable, insatiable, undying flame.

“Trees fall, mountains burn, steam billows. The seas are swallowed.

“Stars become cinders, and the moon falls from the sky.

“The world, devoured by flame, smolders out.”

Kiran allows the final words of the prophecy to reign over the ensuing silence, before they look up, and say this: 

“That’s not a prophecy. It’s a history.”

Laegjarn’s mouth opens, the equivalent of an astonished gape. Alfonse is certain he’s wearing the same expression at that point, because if that’s true, then the rest of it...oh, what happened in the age of the gods? And _why does Kiran know so much about it_?

“God against god,” Kiran says. “Creatures dredged from the bowels of the earth. Chaos.”

Kiran takes a breath. “But she failed to destroy the world, and the gods, for good. The gods survived, and hid themselves away. And she was weakened, terribly so, as the gods’ final act of revenge.”

The weapons, Alfonse realises. Not just divine instruments of power, but the bolt-holes of gods who had been so desperate to escape destruction. It sends a shiver crawling up his spine, moving with the spiny legs of an insect. A blood price, indeed: the gods feeding on them in return for small gifts of their power.

And of course, no one need ask who _she_ is. There is only one answer.

“So she seeks to kill the gods?” Laegjarn asks. “She truly is a creature of chaos.”

But Kiran shakes their head. And Alfonse finds his hair standing on end, because what is standing next to him right now is not Kiran. The change, the subsumption of Kiran into whatever ruled him now had been so subtle even Alfonse, who knows Kiran so, so well, had almost missed it. But Kiran never sounds as sure of themselves as they do now, and they speak with an orator’s cadence, each word carefully weighed and measured to achieve the maximum effect. 

“No. She seeks to release them. Well fed on the quintessence of the wielders of the divine weapons, and driven mad by their millennia of imprisonment, they yearn for freedom. They yearn, too, to right old wrongs, the memories of which they cling to in order to preserve the last scraps of their ancient minds. If freed, the war from before will begin again. And this time, there will be no power on earth that can stop them.”

Alfonse can hardly imagine it. The gods, walking the earth once more. Divine dragons, lost in the seas of insanity, raking furrows into the flesh of the world, reshaping the very landscape with the force of their wrath. Nothing of human manufacture, magical or otherwise, will be able to survive such a cataclysm.

Laegjarn’s words cut through his thoughts. “But if that’s what she wants, then why this war? There are easier ways to obtain the weapons you claim contain the gods themselves.”

Kiran repeats the general’s words from earlier: “She is a creature of chaos. This war amuses her. And you know as well as I do, I suspect, that she would tear down her own designs if she believed it would bring her greater joy. She...cannot do otherwise. That is her fate. As it was the gods’ fate to go to war.”

Alfonse is convinced, though suspicious of the alien intellect lurking now behind Kiran’s golden eyes. Laegjarn, however, is not convinced at all.

“But how do you know this? This is a very nice story, Kiran, but it’s all so convenient. Who are _you_? Are you one of the gods from before? Their vessel?” Laegjarn’s eyes narrowed. “Why should I trust the information you’re giving me?”

“It…” and Kiran is back to being Kiran once more, just like that; the cold intelligence withdraws, leaving them unsteady, lost. “The information...comes from my master.”

“And who is he?” Laegjarn says. “I need details, Kiran, so I might judge whether or not this information is trustworthy. Lies and fairy tales are useless to me.”

Kiran opens their mouth, and then stops, mouth moving strangely, as though the words are being strangled in their throat. “He is,” Kiran says, “he is…” They shut their eyes. “I cannot say.”

And Alfonse knows they mean _I cannot say because he won’t let me_ , but Laegjarn hears _I don’t want to say because I don’t have a good answer._ She sighs, and turns her back on the two of them.

“I don’t know what I was thinking,” she says to herself, out loud. “Trusting the enemy...I never should have entertained such a notion. Go. Eimnir and Ymir will conduct you back to your camp. Tell them I would have it done, and they will do it.”

Alfonse tries to explain. If she only understood what Kiran is, she would know that they aren’t lying, and they do not hide things willingly. “General, if you would just give me a moment—”

“No. We have risked discovery for long enough. My sword, Prince Alfonse.” She holds out her hand. “We did not speak. We did not meet. We were never not at war. Do you understand?”

There’s nothing he can do—he knows the face she’s wearing, because he’s seen an echo of it on Kiran before. The closed shutters of someone whose mind will not be changed.

He surrenders Níu to her. And just like that, any hope of a connexion between Múspell and Askr dissolves, like dew under the morning sun.

=

“It was really very naughty of you to send your own sister after me, dear. What if she’d gotten hurt in the Tempest? It’s so terribly...dangerous.”

Loki. As though Laegjarn were enchanted with some sort of charm that allows Loki to divine her location at any moment of the day (though that would surprise Laegjarn not at all), Loki had hunted her down after the Tempest had dissipated. She looks no worse for the wear. Perhaps Loki had disguised her wounds with her own magic, perhaps she had hid behind the Tempest’s phantoms to avoid the swords of the Order. Laegjarn doesn’t particularly care.

“I had nothing to do with it,” Laegjarn says, which is true, more or less. “It was her idea, as I believe she told you.”

Laevatein had come to her with the idea to spy on Loki before Laegjarn’s unsuccessful meeting with the Divine Summoner and Prince of Askr, and Laegjarn had seen it as an opportunity. Laevatein had never been particularly stealthy, and so Laegjarn had thought that, with Loki distracted by Laevatein’s skulking about, having the meeting would be that much safer. And so, she had simply expressed her cautious approval for the idea—her sister did the rest.

“Oh, details,” Loki says. “Pesky things, aren’t they?”

“Whatever you say.”

Loki’s hand slides onto her shoulder, and the strategist comes closer. “Now, Princess Laegjarn. I came to you because although I am _touched_ you’ve taken such an interest in me, you’re concerning yourself with things that really aren’t your business. And consorting with the enemy? My, should your father find out…”

Laegjarn hides her shock rather well, she thinks—perhaps because, on some level, she had always expected Loki to find out. The woman has eyes and ears everywhere.

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about, Loki. But please tell him what you seem to believe I’ve done, if you like. We’ll see whom he trusts—you, or his daughter.”

Loki sneers. “How feisty, Princess. I might start thinking you don’t like me.”

She moves away, but turns back towards Laegjarn, and says, as though she’s just remembered it: “But do warn your sister that if she must follow me, she really ought to be more careful. Who knows? I might confuse her for an enemy spy one of these days.”

“I gave you my warning,” Laegjarn snaps. “You know what will happen if you touch a single hair on her head, Loki. Don’t you dare lay a hand on her.”

“Cute, dear, but you’ll forgive me if I’m not particularly intimidated,” Loki says. “Try me, if you like. I’d welcome the exercise.”

Loki has the last word, because she leaves after delivering what, for her, is a most uncharacteristically overt threat.

Or perhaps Laegjarn will have that last word, because she’s learned something here. Before, she hadn’t believed what Kiran had told her, but now, after Loki had out and out _threatened_ her, she begins to wonder if the tale they’d fed her was true, after all.

But like Kiran said: Loki would ruin her own plans if it amused her. Maybe this is just her, sowing chaos within chaos. Stoking suspicions to divide Múspell’s army in order to extend the war.

Laegjarn shakes her head. No, this is a waste of her time. There is nothing to figure out about Loki, because she operates according to whim and caprice alone. All she can do is try to protect herself and her sister, and damn the rest.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.
> 
> At last, some real (???) plot.
> 
> (This was written back in May, in response to a prompt on r/fireemblemheroes about the Tempest Trials.)


End file.
